


Far From Home

by Crazycat271



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Ni No Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch (Video Game), Ni no Kuni
Genre: Gen, Homesickness, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazycat271/pseuds/Crazycat271
Summary: Setting sail for the Summerlands, Gascon embarked on his journey. But things did not go according to plan, and he woke on the shores of a strange continent, far from home. A set of one-shots of the former prince's adventures in Skyrim. Rated Mature for the cannon deaths of characters, and for violence.Re-uploading from fanfiction.net





	1. Warmth

Warmth  
It was strange to him, he had never considered it a need before. In the palace of bronze, that he once called home, he had no real reason to worry about it, even when the metal walls siphoned the heat out of the chambers, they could still afford to provide adequate warmth to each room. It was one of the things that being wealthy allowed them to do. One of the perks of royalty.   
Which is why, when he woke, Gascon could hardly understand what had happened to him. Sure, he had been cold before, the wasteland that surrounded the mechanical city of Hamelin were no desert, and teaching Marcassin the Frostbite spell had come with a few mishaps. But this was far beyond that, the cold seemed to seep through his muscles to freeze his very being.   
Unable to understand why he felt like this, believing initially that he was dead, he cracked open his eyes. Seeing dirt beneath him, and flurries of snow falling upon the dark earth. The heavy blowing of the wind brought with it a bitter chill, along with the sharp stench of salt water. Howling, it battered at his body and bit at his skin, leaving a sharp sting on his being, and a deep ache in his muscles.   
Letting out a sharp gasp, he felt a wave of icy chill overtook his legs, they seemed to float for a second in the haze of pain, before being placed back to the ground, feeling heavy. Drawing in a shaking breath, his throat seeming to crack as the cold air passed through it, he lifted his head slowly, straining to do so. Looking at his feet, he saw them submerged in dark water, the frozen waves lapping at his knees eagerly, as if it were consuming him. Sharply but shakenly, he pulled his feed from their murky depths, only to be met with a beating from the wind, the air only serving to make him colder.   
Shivering he turned his attention from the dull numbness in his limbs to his frost-bitten surroundings, he has washed up on a shoreline, the ground specked with white powder held numerous darkened and jagged planks and shreds of wood. Their sturdy material soaked with the salted water of the sea, many being drawn in and pushed out by the waves, their pointed sides scraping the rocks embedded within the earth.   
Violet eyes scoured the shoreline, many more blades of wood scattered the frosted shoreline, plates of ice lined the water’s edge, scattered across them were rusting metal bolts and screws, from joining the ship together, this was definitely the remains of the ship. Desperately searching, the young teen hobbled to his feet and strained his eyes in each direction looking for others. But the winter landscape bore not a single other soul in sight.  
Shaking breaths billowed in the wind, turning to small clouds as they met the sharpness of the frozen air. Gascon turned from one direction to the other looking for anything or anyone who could fix this predicament, seeing no-one, but a small sactual being tugged at by the waves. It’s soaked leather body stamped with a snout that represents the nature of the city it was created in, Hamelin, his old home.   
Sighing in relief and thanking whatever deity granted him the thought to grab his bag during the storm, he limped forward towards the dark brown, waterlogged object. Retrieving it, he searched its contents, finding his pistol and several bullets, grabbing the barrel of the gun, he pulled it up out the depth of its holder. Tilting it with his shivering hand, he emptied it of its waterlogged contents, hoping to prevent the metal from rusting. Drawing in a shaking breath in relief, his throat cracking from the icy wind as it passed through his mouth. Granting the shoreline one final scan, he turned and hobbled as quick as he could inland, his arms wrapped around himself as his body shuddering from the stinging cold. His teeth chattering as he drew in shaking breaths, gasping as he did so.   
The squelching in his boots alerting him to the state of his clothes, his skin to frozen to feel anything at this point. Soaked in salt water, the fine woven cloth covering his body slowly crystallised in an icy layer as the snow coated him, biteing at his skin and stabbing at his muscles as it settled. His tunic sagging from the weight, dragging his shoulders downwards. His fine woven red jacket, now a torn mess, the golden trim that coated its sides now scratched and fraying. The red fabric of the coat soiled and torn, some cuts delving deep enough to cause damage to his dark green tunic, its material, too, torn in several places from the battering of the ocean. The once purple trousers that clad his legs, now took on a brownish tint from the dirt that encrusted them. Looking down at them, Gascon saw they were torn in several places, along with his own skin. Despite the wounds that littered his legs, he felt nothing, the ice that had settled within them too strong to allow him to feel them. Shivering from the same cold, the feebly scrambled towards an incline in the terrain, perhaps it would provide some shelter against the bitter cold.  
He was disappointed to find that it didn’t. The high reaching rock provided little shelter against the battering of the wind and the sharpness of the chill. Breathing deeply to keep himself upright, the young prince placed his hand against the coldness of the stone, barely feeling anything through the pain the ice had brought through his skin. The ache that had settled deep into his bones, begun to thaw into a numbness, drowsiness starting to overtake him, eyes drooping he had the urge to lean against the grey surface. Shaking his head to keep himself awake, he pushed away from the rock.  
Looking upwards through the snowfall, he scoured the sky for an answer to his pleas, he noticed a dark stream of grey rising through the puffs of white. Eyes widening in realisation and hope, he scrambled in the direction of the rising beacon. Despite stumbling several times over jutting rocks and snowdrifts, his aching body determined to persist despite the icy chill that stabbed through it, increasing with each movement he made. Picking himself up from his knees once again, the trembling teen made his way up to a snowy mound, legs straining to carry him, feet sinking as the snow compressed beneath him. Finally breaching the top of the mound, he lay his eyes on the scene before him.   
A cave jutted out of the rocky wall, sheltering the small camp before him and swallowing the light of the surroundings. The smouldering ruin of what he assumed was once a roaring fire, lay unattended and dying in an ashy pit surrounded by small grey stones, in the centre of the camp. The flapping of pelts that made the nearby tents, drowned out the faint howling of the wind that moved them. Their orange tinted covers coated in a light brushing of snow.   
But all that mattered little compared to what lined the mouth of the cave, among the scattered snow and dirt, lying in a wreath of blood, were the broken, bloodied bodies of two people. A chill greater than the bitter wind settled in his chest and reached out towards his limbs, halting him in his path momentarily. His throat tightened as though he were about to vomit, the nauseating stench that clung to them merged with the chill of the icy atmosphere.   
Rushing forward, the young boy saw the full extent of the damage. Their vacant eyes dulled on raged expressions, frozen with death as the ground was frozen with ice. The bodies were cut, straight lines cut deeply and neatly into the muscles of its fallen victims. Blood crusting across these cuts, drying in crimson clumps. The culprit of the damage likely with a weapon of sorts, this was an attack, not that done by wild beasts, the bodies were left too intact, the wounds to precise to be from that of hungry animal. One done by people, these were done by a malicious attack.   
Panic surging through him, Gascon scrambled away from the bloodied corpses before him, looking outside the shaded hollow of the cave, he strained his eyes for signs of movement, anything that could be a sign of the returning threat that slaughtered the two before him. If they had both fallen, sword and axe in their hand respectively, then he stood no chance, not even with his gun in hand. Struggling to forgetting his plight with the frost-bitten wind in a desperate attempt at survival, he searched frantically for something, anything that could help protect him.   
Then he saw it, top half of it flapping in the wind much like the leather tents, the cream paper untouched by snow or the fray of the battle. Held down by the weight of a cold dagger, desperately trying to escape the hold of the heavier object. Both nested atop a greying barrel. Walking closer to the flailing object, the teen moved his arms from his sides, painfully, as they felt like they had frozen in place. Moving the cold, sharp object from the paper, he held the fluttering object in his hands making out the words written upon its page.   
Raids near the fort are dying down,  
Caravans have stopped going that way,  
The guard are getting suspicious, most likely the place will be searched soon,  
Before then we have decided to leave,  
Sleeping in the cold is hardly enjoyable, at least its only temporary,  
We’ve heard the caravans near Solitude carry more anyway.  
Reading the words over and over, as if he were trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind the individual words.   
‘Solitude’ he wondered, what could that mean. He knew the words individual meaning well, he had experienced it more than enough. Sometimes welcoming it, other time not so much. The loneliness that came with it was all too familiar. Regardless, he continued, the words clearly stated criminal acts, dulling his grief for the fallen strangers. It being replaced by a revolting disgust. Whoever killed these… people, if he could even call them that, no doubt, were not a threat to him, probably looking for revenge or a stolen object perhaps.   
Looking back at the corpses, he sneered with disgust. Perhaps it was just his upbringing, perhaps it was simply morals, but he couldn’t stomach people like this, who steal for no reason other than personal gain. If it were for survival it would be more understandable, but this was due to greed. Momentarily forgetting the hypothermic conditions, he glowered at the bodies still lying in their blood, a few meters away from where he was. People like this made his fathers work difficult, planning adequate safety for innocent citizens took plenty of time and preparation, it needed to be often altered to combat the changes these fiends made to counter these defences. Eating up his time with work... taking from his time with family.   
Perhaps it was selfish to hold a personal grudge against these people, but he wouldn’t be freezing in the cold if it weren’t for crooks like this. He would be at home with is family… spending time with them, laughing with them, not fighting every time he spoke to his father, and avoiding everyone afterwards. His heart clenched tighter and tighter in his chest as his thoughts continued, his eyes seemed to water. Shaking his head and blinking his eyes, he tried to focus on the moment, the here and now, he cold that continued to seep to his bones despite the smouldering embers that stood a short distance from him.  
‘Fire!’ he exclaimed internally, scolding himself that he had let himself forget about the situation. Dragging his shaking legs, he made his way towards the smoking ring of stones, Thanking the same deity that it had a log pile close by. Reaching for a few of the drier pieces, he laid them in the smouldering pit, hoping they would ignite.   
As luck would have it, they did. The steadily growing fire, cutting through the darkness, illuminating the cave walls with a gentle orange glow. The air seemed to warm up quickly, the smoke hardly a bother as the flickering flames blessed the surroundings with their radiating heat. It took a little longer for the warmth to restore his sense of touch again, his fingers aching as the cold left, seeming to melt away. He was still shivering however, the dripping clothes covering him, chilling him too, countering the breath from the flame that he desperately needed.   
Curling his knees to his chest in a shallow attempt to keep warm against the flickering flames, his thoughts wandered to home. Namely to how he and his brother would often sit by the fire in the sitting room on the nights father worked late, reading his younger brother stories from his favourite books, roasting various foods over the open hearth, the last part without his father’s knowledge, of course. Laughing when some the food fell off the stick, comforting his brother when his favourite characters went through strife, hugging and telling him how proud he was of him, wandering what the future held for them both. Never had he imagined that this is how his life would play out, he would have scoffed at the very thought, freezing to death in an unknown place… far from home.  
Far from his family.   
Suddenly the weight of the waterlogged clothes on his back felt like feathers in comparison to the weight of his actions. He had left his brother, his little brother, defenceless, despite being a powerful wizard he hadn’t even reached the age of eight… hadn’t even been left on his own for longer than half a day. And yet, there he was, far away, nested within the metallic, cage of a city, without his older brother to keep him safe. His heart felt even heavier as he watched the dancing flames.  
Despite the weight threatening to crush him, the elder prince knew he couldn’t stay like this, the cold still clawed at him, despite the roaring fire. The sodden clothes on his back would need to go, to be replaced with more suitable ones, even if they dried well, they were torn, and parts of the once fine fabric was now bloodied. Looking up towards the shaded barrels that lined the back of the cave, he scanned the wooden structures looking for anything he could use. The chill making him desperate, he would gladly accept rags at this point. Spying a small fabric bag nested between two of the circular objects, luck seemed to be on his side today, despite the circumstances he was in. Moving hastily towards the partially concealed object, he hoped his luck would stretch at least one miracle longer.   
His hope seemed to pay off, as when he unlatched and removed the cover, he found what he would currently equate to gold… no, precious gemstones. Nested safely within the confines of the fabric bag, were the soft, yet dry fabric of a set of clothes. What he assumed was the underlayer of the outfit was creamish-white, spotted with darker patches. The over layer was a birch colour, again, dotted with patches of darker colours. Greenish trousers hid beneath the fabric of the other articles. All tied together with a brown leather belt, a small sactual looped onto it. The dark patches along with torn hems and sleeves implied that it had been used beforehand, perhaps one of stolen objects the previous holder had obtained. The quality of the material was far less than what he was used to, but he hardly cared at that moment in time, it was thicker than the garments he was used to anyway, probably how people survived the weather outside.   
Pulling the article of clothing out of the bag, he noticed the length, much too long for him, it resembled a dress more than a tunic, pulling a face of discomfort to the thought. This was something he would have to fix, at least it wasn’t too wide for him. Remembering the dagger on the barrel, the young teen, decided to rectify the problem. After cutting through the material, with some difficulty as the blade was not designed for this, he collected the leftover material in the hopes it would be useful to him later. Pulling the clothing close to him, he nodded, satisfied with the length.   
Changing into the warm clothes, the tunic falling no lower than his knees, and discarding of his old royal robes, Gascon turned to the bag looking for other supplies to take. He found a red apple and a loaf of bread, small but welcomed, looking deeper into the bag he found a large leather bundle. Pulling out of its container, they rolled outwards revealing themself to be a pair of boots. Made from dark brown leather, they wrapped around and buckled on one side by three large, wooden buttons. Again, luck seemed to favour him, as they seemed to be in his size.  
Taking them over to the side of the fire, he ate the spoils the bag provided, feeling a relief from the filling of his stomach, he didn’t know he was this hungry. Finishing his meal, he grabbed a handful of the discarded cloth and wrapped it around his foot. Undoing and repeating the process until he was satisfied, he did the same with the other foot.   
‘These would make up for the lack of socks’ he thought to himself, mildly amused. Finished with the other foot, he turned his attention to the tents. Rising from the floor, he moved towards the standing objects. Still moving in the wind, they seemed to block most of the chill, holding the warmth within he cave as they did so. Searching within their confines, he came out with a sleeping roll of some kind and a long fur cloak. Hooded, it was long enough to cover his torso and more, its dark fur a sharp contrast to the white outside the safety of the cove.   
Moving the sleeping roll to the side of the fire, close enough to feel its warmth but not enough to risk catching alight from its flames. He opened it and lay inside, wrapping the fur lined fabric around himself, feeling the comfort. Feeling the last of the ice in him thaw away, he allowed fatigue to overcome him, watching the flames dance as he did so.  
When he awakens in the morning, he would take what he needed and leave the sanctuary of the cave behind him.


	2. The Escape

The escape  
His breath shuddered as he drew in the murky air around him. His heart hammering in his chest. Had that actually happened, has a dragon just caused that. Swallowing he looked at his companion, they seemed to be in just as much disbelief. His eyes widened and fearful, but his stance hardly falling, not allowing his nerve to overtake him, a stark contrast to the quaking teen behind him. Leaning against the wall the younger male let his eyes rest, he had little sleep over the last few days, with everything that had happened, it was a miracle he could still breathe.   
It had started innocently enough, he had wandered down what seemed to be a main trail, the cobbled stone provided a welcome change to the harsh terrain of the land. Each step being harder than the last, the ice that had plagued him since the moment he first washed ashore still clawed at him. The blizzard had passed the snowfall still cloaked the surroundings, along with the ambush. He had found himself stuck between two waring groups. A blade pressed against his neck as he froze in shock, he had been bound and hauled into a cart with several others. One dressed in rags, another in what seemed to be a fur armour set with a blue sash. The third was one of importance, their captors had seemed to sneer in his general direction whenever they got the chance.  
He had leaned, while caught in the rickety cart, that his name was Ulfric Stormcloak, some sort of rebel in a civil war. His stomach had dropped when he heard this, despite his cushioned upbringing he knew the fate of traitors, death would be inevitable… and a mercy. Despite being dressed in torn clothes he, and the other man in rags, had been mistaken for rebels. As they passed through a stone gateway, its grey stone would have been an interesting sight had Gascon not been in shock, he had hoped they would at least realise their mistake.   
His hope had been shattered however, when the other man, Lokir, had ran yelling incoherently about not being a rebel. He had been shot down without a second thought, the arrow hitting his back with enough force to knock him over. Letting out a scream of pain as he fell, he landed with a slid thud before lying still. A scream threatened to rush out the young boy’s throat, strangled only by the ice that had settled, the chill in the air not being the cause. Shaking on the spot, breath both caught in his throat, the wold seemed to fall apart on the spot. Heart hammering in his chest, the young man looked towards his captors when the challenge was uttered.   
‘Anyone else feel like running’, the female commander had shouted, any hope of living left him with those words. The soldier (or so he assumed) stood next to her, looked towards the quaking boy. Squinting he seemed to be looking for something in the face of the young man.   
‘Who are you’ he questioned the young boy, seeming to be confused with the youth’s presence.  
Shaking the violet eyed stared at the man in shock, he had felt this fear many times before but never to this degree. The man spoke with authority but soft enough that it masks any aggression, he had heard that tone of voice many times before… many times before.  
‘G-Gascon’ the young boy replied obediently, recalling that the consequences of acting out in front of his father seemed petty compared to the punishments that these soldiers gave out. The body of Lokir being an example of one. Watching, the young man thoughts raced, swallowing nervously, his attention not wavering from the soldiers in front of him. The seemed to converse between one and other, before the younger of the two turned his attention back to the quaking teen.  
‘I’m sorry, I’ll see that our remains are returned to your family’ he spoke with pity in his voice, everything seemed to stop at that point, his body acting on its own, he followed. His thoughts vividly drifted towards home, his brother. The younger siblings smile when he got a spell right, cheering his elder brother on when testing and designing new mechanisms, these thoughts passed as the axe fell upon the neck of one rebel soldier… and he was called to the block.   
Thinking of how Marcassin and him would sit by the fire during winter the orange flames flickering mesmerizingly, sharing stories as their father worked late day after day. He kneeled before the block, the chill of the stone beneath his knees not disturbing his thoughts.  
How his brother would look at him worryingly after the elder of the two had fought with his father on some petty reason, his brother’s cyan eyes searched his brothers face as he asked him to tell a story, in the hopes of distracting the pained teen. The wood of the block pricked at Gascons skin as the blood of the former occupant soaked is skin.  
This was it, in an attempt to find his place in the world he had fallen victim to a war he had never heard of, in a land of which he didn’t even now by name. He had let his family down, he was cowardly, couldn’t even fight against his attackers, couldn’t even explain their mistake. His father’s disapproving gaze came to mind as the headsman lifted the axe into his arms.  
The young teen shut his eyes, shame overwhelming him. The glare of his father being replaced with the pained gaze of his younger brother, tears in his eyes as he held a sword… nearly twice his height, it weighed heavy in the child’s hands. He had failed his brother, the brother that supported him through everything, who never judged him no matter what, his biggest supporter.   
And he abandoned him, his chest tightened in guilt.  
The youth waited for the axe to fall, hearing the rustling of metal chains beside him and the whirling of wind he held his breath and counted to three…  
‘One’…  
‘Two’…  
‘Thr-‘  
*CRASH*  
The crumbling of rocks and the battering of the bitter wind surrounded him, replacing the illusion of a falling axe, looking up abruptly he scanned his surroundings, pleased to have strangely survived the headsman’s axe, thanking every deity he had be lectured on in this youth, to be alive.   
That relief had lasted little longer than seconds as the shadow above him made its presence known. Atop one of the stone towers stood a towering beast. Scales darker than the midnight smog of Hamelin, eyes a bright, bloody red, it stared down upon the people before it, clawed wings griping the shattered grey rock. Time seemed to freeze as the mighty beast glared at the people beneath it.  
Then it shattered the air with a bellowed screech. The sound stuck a chord within the young boy, the piecing rage sounding almost like a word. His stomach churned as he heard the cry, his hair stood on end as he stared, unblinking at the blood like eyes of the monster before him, his blood turning to ice.  
The sky darkened, turning into a reddish spiral, flames falling from the wisps of clouds circling the now bloodstained heavens. As the fames fell, cracking and exploding on whatever surface they landed, the dark creature yet out another yell, blowing everything back. As his body was ripped from the chopping block he felt the rush of adrenalin fuel his veins, and he could move once again. Escaping through narrow winding paths and burning buildings, he ran with one set of people to another, avoiding numerous attacks from the dragon. In the end he had ran inside the castle looking structure with the first person he saw… that person happened to be the soldier from before.  
Shaking his head, the former prince opened his eyes, the cold of the stone wall was seeping into his skin. Not doing much in a way of helping his racing heart, he moved himself upright back onto his feet and looked around the murky chamber. Lit by a few all cones its interior left much to be desired, at least they were safe.   
A voice drew him sharply from the stillness of his daze, “looks like we’re the only ones that made it” the soldier began, relief evident in his tone. He turned to the younger of the two, “was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?” he asked, as if the boy knew the answer.  
Gascon looked at him, not sure how to respond, he knew of the existence of dragons, hell, they were practically domesticated in some society’s. How this man had not heard of them was beyond him. “I’ve heard of dragons, but I’ve not heard of them doing… that” he replied almost breathlessly, the running earlier still taking its toll on his lungs.   
The elder man cast a quizzical look towards the brown-haired teen, “how could you not… never mind” he started, stopping abruptly before continuing. “We should keep moving, come here let me see if I can get those bindings off” he gestured the teens wrists, which had been tightly bound with a dirty cloth. Gascon was more than happy to oblige, walking towards the older man lifting his hands forwards to allow him to start cutting. Wearing the bandage down with a dagger, the younger of the two was freed shortly after. Rubbing his wrists, reddened from the friction, he looked back towards the soldier as he spoke, “there you go, take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to chose from” with that he turned, muttering about his burns.  
Looking from the armour-clad man to his surroundings, the young prince first noticed a small desk, atop it lay a book with a worn green cover, next to it lay a small pile of gold, flat disks. This must be this lands currency, picking up one of gilded objects, he twisted it in the light, examining the marking. It looked similar to the guilders he used back home, as far as he knew they were used worldwide, so how could these differ from what was so commonly used.  
His thoughts were interrupted by his companion, “take them, you may need them”. The teen turned to look at the soldier, but he was already walking back to the barred gate at the other end of the room. Looking back to the desk, he collected the small pile of coins, counting out five as he did so. Placing them in a pouch in his side bag, he looked back to the worn book, deciding to take it with him he placed it in his satchel.  
Finishing with the desk, the young boy turned to the beds at the dimmed side of the room, the wooden frames adorned with straw overlaid with the pelts of numerous animals. The browns and creams looked soft compared to the ground, but rugged compared to the luxuries he had back home.  
Turning his attention to the chests residing at the bottom of the beds. He sifted through their contents. The aging wooden containers yielded leather braces, boots and a smallish tunic, perhaps it would fit him. Removing his satchel and his now soaked over shirt, he slipped the restricting, but protective garment over his shoulders, it finally settling reaching just above the hem of his dress like shirt. The ties of the apparel lined both sides of the dark brown garment, tightening and tying the strings the young man felt shortened of breath for a moment before growing used to the restricting material hugging his torso.   
Replacing the torn and soaked boots with the sturdy leather ones that reached to his knees, he added the sturdy braces to his wrists, these would provide adequate protection, at least, to prevent his hands being severed at the point, he wasn’t too sure how they would stand against the force behind the blade.   
Sighing he hooked his bag over his shoulder again and looping his fur cloak over his back, looking back into the chest to see if there was anything else to retrieve. As luck would have it, another seven coins were stuffed into a bag into the corner of the wooden cheat, placing the previous five coins in the pouch, he placed it in his sactual. Smiling at his new attire and addition to his coin purse, he turned to look around the room noticing a weapon rack at the other side of the room.   
Walking past his companion as he advanced to the holder, he noticed they only held swords, not his preferred choice of close range weapon, but he still had some experience with them thanks to royal training. Shaking his head, hoping to come across a spear or two on his travels he took what appeared to be the sharper of the two swords, laying its blade gently in his palm observing it. Despite its supposed superiority to its twin, it was chipped and looked as if it hadn’t been sharpened in ages. Pulling a face, the teen hooked its sheath onto his belt, before sheathing the weapon itself.   
Looking back at his companion, he noticed that the older man was looking at him with an expression of pity. He scanned the younger man’s face, worried eyes searching for any negative emotion. “how are you holding up” he eventually uttered.  
Blinking at him in shock, the younger man stared at the man who just addressed him, he opened his mouth several times, attempting to convey his thoughts on the situation… but with no success. Sighing, the younger man looked at his feet, he finally replied, “…It’s been a hectic day”.  
The elder seemed to consider this, then nodding, he addressed the young man. “Ok, just try to stay calm, we may meet some other survivors” he said sympathetically. Turning back to the gate he pulled the chain at the side of the door, raising the gate. The two advanced through the short corridor the end barred with another gate.  
Hadvar stopped, putting an arm out to prevent the young man from advancing, he whispered “Look Stormcloaks, maybe we can reason with them” with an optimistic tone. Somehow, the young former prince disagreed, even he knew that the rage of war would not be quenched from something like that. The wizard wars had wiped more than half the country’s off the map, Hamelin’s shores showed the fates of at least two of them, obliterated long before his great-grandfather was even born. The rage that tore the land apart was the same that tore through this land, the same that plagued these men’s hearts. This would end bloodily.   
Raising the gate, the elder of the two spoke cautiously, “hold up, we only want t-“. However, he was cut off by the blue clad soldiers before him. Regrettably, Gascon had been right about them, they wanted to finish the war that was started. Drawing a blade and axe respectively, they advanced. Hadvar reacted immediately, drawing his blade, the teen followed suit pulling the battered blade from its sheath. As the older man approached the axe wielding rebel, the other advanced towards the younger boy, rage flaring in his eyes.  
An icy cold chill washed down the former prices spine as panic struck him hard in the chest. Ducking to one side to avoid a vicious slash to the side of the head. Nausea crept into his stomach as his throat tightened, threatening to spill the remains of yesterday’s meagre meal. Before his body could react on the thought, his assailant turned to face him, anger flaring in his expression. Swinging his sword at the teen once again. The clatter of metal and the shouts behind them was thundered out by blood rushing through the boy’s ears. A sting lay itself across Gascons cheek as the blade grazed its target slightly, the beads of blood welling slowly through the flare of pain. A good sign, at least it wasn’t deep.   
Through his panic, the teen felt a familiar tug of muscles, before noticing what he was doing, a clang of metal was heard above him. Adjusting his wavering vision, he was startled to see the blade of his attacker being blocked by a battel worn sword, realising at once it was his. Muscle memory must have been triggered, he considered, shaking as he did so. Jumping back, he focused on the movement of the rebel, dodging and blocking as he did so. Watching each swing and movement of his opponent, he imagined his former mentor in their place. Scolding him for each failed block, applauding him every successful strike, teaching the art of royal swordplay until it felt as easy as dancing to the young prince. Then the near tearful expression of his younger brother appeared in his mind, sword in hand his eyes pleaded him to stay. But all he got was a promise to return. Thinking of that brought a vigour to the teens muscles, burning away the stiffening fear replacing it with a searing resolve.  
He would win this fight.  
No matter what it took, he would return to his brother.  
Crying out in rage, the young teen swung his scarred sword. Landing blow after blow, beating his assailant back with each strike, very few of them cutting into the rebel, but the ground still being sprayed with droplets of blood. The pained gasps of his opponent were soon extinguished by their own enraged howl. The clash of steel against iron echoed off the cold stone walls as the two danced around each other, swinging violently at each other every few seconds. The brash harshness of the rebel contrasted against the grace and fluidity of the former prince’s royal swordplay, each swing wore the assailant down. Despite the finance of the teens art, his inexperience with real fights caught up to him, coupled with the fact that his weapon was battered and weaker compared to his opponent’s, he soon found himself on the losing side of the battle.  
Stumbling the teen left himself open, roaring in triumph the rebel went to deliver the last strike, darting towards the young man, blade held above his head. Gasping, the teen darted to one side blade held forward ready to strike the back of his aggressor’s head, ending the fight.   
His legs buckled, the blood providing a slick surface.…   
He fell to the side of his opponent…  
…and felt the impact of the ground cushioned by a large object.  
Opening his eyes, he saw the armoured body of the rebel beneath him, eyes still, rage immortalised on his frozen face. And the grey broken blade of a sword embedded in his chest, blood coating his chest as it soaked through the wound to the floor. Its scarlet a stark contrast against the light greys of the stone, the flickering candle light reflecting off of its surface. The flames of rage that griped him before were extinguished, replaced by a sickening chill that seemed to seer him harsher than their predecessor. Looking back towards the face of his former aggressor, he saw the vacant eyes boring into him, slowly glazing as the process of death took its toll on the fallen body. Feeling his stomach drop even further, the guilt weighing on him. ‘This is not what I wanted’ he thought painfully, the blood seeped further along the floor. Despite the attack made against him, he felt he could have acted differently.   
If he held his ground better…   
If he hadn’t slipped…  
The scolding of is former mentor came to mind.  
Feeling a hand slap down on his shoulder, he looked up to see the concerned eyes of Hadvar, his face splattered with the blood of the other Stormcloak. He searched the younger boys face, pit in his gaze. “Are you alright, you don’t look too good” he eventually muttered, gently he helped the teen to his feet.  
Considering his companions concern, Gascon looked back to the body. Guilt weighed in his chest and the blood on his hands begun to dry. Gulping as he noticed himself shaking harder than before, staring at the vacant eyes of his former attacker.   
“…It’s the first time I’ve killed someone” he admitted eventual, his voice taking a solemn tone.  
The air stood still as he waited for a response, something scolding he assumed. “I see… so, I assume you really weren’t with the rebels before” his companion inquired gently. Shaking his head to answer, the older man continued at the teens gesture. “He would have killed you, you had no choice. Regardless… we need to keep moving, we will likely run into more further in”. The rumbling of the dragon over heads confirmed this.  
Moving throughout the hold numbly, the younger had followed the elder. Collecting better weapons had been necessary, a fairly sturdy steel sword lay heavy on Gascon’s belt, and a sharpened steel accompanied it. Along with a bow and several arrows to spare his bullets. He collected small stores of preservable foods and some of the ale that was left on the tables and cupboards, due to there being a seemingly large lack of drinking water. Hadvar had recommended taking some small vials of healing potions, apparently this country’s version of the healing tonics back home.  
At one point they had arrived at what appeared to be a torture room at one point, finishing off an attack from more rebels. After looting, again at Hadvar’s suggestion and Gascon’s disgust, what appeared to be a mage outfit from a corpse inside one of the locked cages. ‘It’ll sell well’, Gascon had tried to justify to himself as revulsion sided alongside the numbing guilt. Despite the legal and moral discrepancies he was committing, the former prince still chose to find other necessities to take, the weren’t going to be used here again any time soon anyway. Some gold coins from behind the wooden counter and an interesting black book with a strange dragon-looking symbol on the front, it would make for an interesting read later he had justified.  
Moving forward they had encountered several other enemy soldiers, striking them down as they had done to the first, the actions only adding to numbing guilt the teen was burdened with. What would his little brother think of him acting with such bloodthirst, cutting down his opponents rather than incapacitating them. His guilt only further increased at the thought, one look at Hadvar told him the older of the two had felt the same way at their actions.   
Walking further into the winding caves had seen them up against monstrous creatures, the former prince let lose a high-pitched scream when he saw the eight-legged creatures fall from the ceiling. ‘There’s no way spiders can grow so big, surely’ he had thought in terror after cutting the beast down, living in Hamelin had limited the number of animals he had chances to see, the wastelands being occupied mostly by rogue machines and haunted husks from the mass graves by the tombstone trail. His companion had mentioned his reaction jokingly while stating that he was just as surprised as the younger boy at the creatures before them, before leading the way through even more winding tunnels.  
Walking through what appeared to be another cave, the two looked around for any signs of danger. Seeing a mass of brown fur laying in a beam of chilled sunlight stopped him dead in his tracks, his companion saw too and quickly crouched behind some rocks, the boy following suit. “Look a bear” his companion had exclaimed, “I’d rather not tangle with her right now, let’s try to sneak by”. Agreeing, the two had snuck past rocks and fallen dried branches to avoid the sleeping beast, careful not to wake it. However, attempting to sneak past the bear had been harder than first thought, which was made evident when the younger of the two saw a shadow rise up quickly on the ground, barely having enough time to warn Hadvar with a shout before ducking out of the way of a vicious swipe.  
Drawing their blades, they had forgot the beast, their blades dashing across the coated body of their assailant. A few hits had landed on them, nothing serious enough to warrant immediate healing but still stung fiercely as the fight had raged on. Eventual, through tremendous effort, they had fell the beast, a small trickle of triumph had replaced the sickening guilt from before and Gascon wasn’t too sure what to make of it.   
Hadvar had returned to the body to skin it for its pelt, surprising the former prince. The difference in how these people lived compared to Hamelin’s citizens was striking. Hunting was unheard of, skinning the animal, even more so. Sure, the higher classes in Hamelin society often brought furs, but they were all imported, this was the first time he had ever considered such a thing necessary. But then again, it was cold outside, the fur that made his own borrowed cloak helped starve off the ice’s effect. Blinking at his companion once he had finished, they moved onwards.  
Perhaps he could grow to live like this, he thought, as the darks browns and greys of the earth and stone gave way to a flurry of green and blue.


	3. Buried

Buried  
*CLUNG*  
The heavy weight of the ancient dragon door finally settling sounded and echoed through the icy cavern. The stone columns that would of supported the walkway lay in heaps of rubble as their natural counterpart took over the task of supporting the cave ceiling. The loud echoes of Gascon’s footsteps filled the surroundings, accompanied by the occasional drip and the distant thundering of rushing water. The dark browns and stifling ebony of the shadowed cavern, lit only by the flickering orange of a lit torch, gave way to the chilled icy blues and snowy whites of the main sanctum. Its gentle glow a beautiful contrast of the rotting interior of the crypt he had passed through.   
The rays of white light shone down onto what appeared to be an island within the cavern, illuminating the stone walls, earth, and green leaves of the hardy shrubs in a chilling, yet welcoming light. As if it were frozen in time itself. Thundering, the flowing river winded beneath the earthy out cropping’s of the split land. The ruins had been built into the land as well, the island containing the evidence of an immense stone monument, the path to it paved by worn crumbling stone, a bridge linking the walkway between the island over the river. Itself worn but sturdy. Gascon wasn’t too sure whether nature had cut into the cavern or if whoever built this place had incorporated the underground river into its structure.  
The wind, despite being so weak from being beneath the ground, had brought with it the frozen chill Gascon had been introduced to on his unplanned arrival. Perhaps this is what had preserved the ruins so well, he thought as he gazed at the sight before him. The ancient monument standing tall and proud upon a raised platform, challenging all beneath it who break its rule and demanding respect from those who did not… much like his father had done back home. Standing aboard the mechanical platforms, parading through the city as he demonstrated his political control over the land, the crowd cheering as he passed. Having his sons to attend alongside him, declaring them the next to that position.  
Despite only one who could ever hold that title.  
Sighing, he shook himself from his thoughts, knowing fully well he couldn’t compare himself to his brother. Thinking, instead, to the circumstances that had brought him hear. Farengar, the court wizard of Whiterun, had ‘requested’ the safe collection of an artefact called the Dragon-stone, giving no details to the use or purpose of the object, however. Alongside this, a rather perturbed shop keeper had requested the return of a stolen object, the golden claw, that had opened the large stone door that sealed this very cavern. He had heard the mans query when he stopped at Riverwood, a beautiful village upon the banks of a rather large river, halfway on the way back from Whiterun. Apparently, those thieves had hold out in the same place as the Dragon-stone was buried, deep in the crypts of Bleak Falls Barrow.  
This came as no surprise when the teen had stumbled through the winding passage ways, layered with bodies upon bodies and numerus chests, all piled full of gold and precious gems. No wonder the thieves were so eager to break into the ancient burial crypt.   
Thinking of the thieves brought with it a bout of disgust, they had hold up in the abandoned ruins, guarding what each area with extreme greed, scared that others may come across their precious treasure. Gascon really couldn’t stand these sorts of people, which made his anger increase exponentially when he found the leader, hold up in an open room, trapped in a web. Honestly, he had deserved as much. After much fretting and slashing at the spider, the former prince had decided to cut him down, with full intentions of turning the crook into whatever law enforcement functioned around here. Unsurprisingly however, the fiend had made a last-ditch effort to escape. Perusing the crook had been tricky, abandoning the act of mercy, the former price had dashed through the winding hallways, intending to end the chase.   
However, it was not him that finished the fiend. A darkened, decrepit blade had struck its mark, just out of sight, the teen had halted. Observing he saw what could only be described as a corpse. A rotting, skeletal corpse. The scent reached him, a good few metres away, and he reached. Despite adapting to his new surroundings, rather well he might add, the smell was enough to make him nearly keel over. His throat tightened as the urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed him, only the promise of danger brought him back, as the beasts had finished with their former quarry and had directed their attention to him. There had been more than a few of these monsters to fight before the former prince could reach his current destination. He was amazed that he still hadn’t spilled his stomach.  
Although it seemed worth it once the chambers revealed their hidden treasures. Everything from petty change and minor potions stored in large urns, to weapons and copious amount of gold stored in locked trapped chests. Needless to say, Gascon would be walking out of this place with heavier pockets than he arrived with. He could now understand why the bandits chose this place to linger.   
Remembering the number of weapons available, he looked down to his belt where the hilt of an ancient sword rested. He had pried it out of the hands of the corpse that had split the previous blade he had, despite being made from steel, it had worn down quickly. Scoffing, the former price considered the craftsmanship of the more modern sword to its replacement, the latter was a good few centuries older and still in prime condition, while the newer one barely lasted the month.   
‘It’s to be expected I suppose, they are in a war, shoddy craftsmanship was a result of mass production’ the teen chuckled to himself, thinking back to the factories of Hamelin, and the shortcuts many of the less reliable ones used. Many of their products breaking within the first few months of use, while their more pricey counterparts lasted for years. His father had to add more laws regarding regulation of products due to those factories.   
Stopping his thought process so he couldn’t be drawn into another bout of nostalgia. He continued further into the cavern. The drumming of a waterfall mixed with the rush of the river beneath his feet as he crossed the cracked bridge, careful net to linger in case the structure collapsed. Creeping forwards on unsteady feet, the light shining through the roof of the cavern almost blinding him, he made is way to the weathered stair case, every second step on its accent was longer, looking almost like small platforms.   
Treading lightly, he tested each worn step as he moved forward, worried that they crumbled into dust beneath each tender step. His leather clad footsteps sounded softly against the racing of the water, his breaths coming out in foggy puffs of white air as the icy surroundings chilled his lungs. The light filtering through the break in the roof of the cave, turning its surroundings to ice, flicked over his russet hair, leaving a pale blueish outline atop the former prince’s head, akin to the colour of the stone monument surrounding him.   
His footfall sounded softly upon the platform, the cold stone around him shining with a bluish tint. Looking to his left, he saw what appeared to be several rusted shelves, the black of the iron running into a dark brown colouring as the material degraded. Laying still next to the rusted storage unit, was another of the cold stone coffins that had dotted the catacombs he had previously passed through. Its cold black surface shone dimly in the white light, the heavy stone lid left undisturbed, hiding its occupants below a layer of hefty rock.   
Deciding to steer unclear of its sleeping contents, unsure if it would choose now to awaken, Gascon crept softly towards the heavy iron chest near the other set of stairs, directly across from his current position. Its rusting joints creaked softly, snapping in several places, grinding in others as the heavy metal lid was lifted to reveal its contends. Immediately procuring the lightweight values, the former prince began to sift through what remained, a steel sword, an iron shield, and a set of leather armour which he gladly used to replace the tattered remains of his previous leather set. And yet, the stoned remained unfound, sighing the young boy decided to take some of the chests contents, before moving to search the decrepit shelves.  
Only to find a few ruined books and wraps of linen, no sign of the treasure he had been sent to retrieve. A sinking feeling made itself at home in his stomach, the panic arising with it left no room for logical thought.  
Scoffing feebly, the young man looked back and forth between the two searched furnishings. ‘This is no doubt the main chamber, it looks too grand to be anything else, unless Farengar was wrong about the stone being here’ the boy thought. His breathing started to quicken, becoming shallow as it did so, and despite the chill he begun to sweat. In an attempt to fight off the panic that was taking a hold of him, the young man begun to pace along the platform, disregarding his previous caution for the occupant of the decrepit stone coffin.   
The rhythm of footsteps helped calm his mind, it was a habit he picked up as a child, never once dropping it throughout his childhood. Despite everyone’s misgivings, it wasn’t exactly helpful when you were expected to sit still and work with paper, after all. The scornful remarks form his tutors, and sometimes even his father, had taught him that much. How was the price supposed to learn if he couldn’t even sit still, let alone focus on the task at hand? Was just one of the comments he received on the matter. The only one not to bring the elder princes tic with mockery was his brother, his dear younger brother. Who had only mentioned the matter when asking his brother why he did it.   
The former prince begun to slow at the thought of his younger brother, seemingly the only person to ever accept him. His breathing returned to normal, as the overwhelming panic melted into a heavy guilt. Slowing his pace to a stop, the former prince looked at his feet. The blueish glow of the cave still illuminating to stone beneath him, almost blinding to look at. The rushing of the wind and the whisper it carried surrounded him as his mind begun to calm itself, allowing him to focus on the gently whispers it carried. The whistle sounding almost like words as it brushed past him, moving each strand of hair on his head as it did so.   
Gascon listened for a moment longer to the steady yet hushed tones, before realising that they hadn’t past, but instead continued at a steady pace, changing in tone but never faltering. The wind couldn’t have made those sounds, they sounded much too human for that. Looking around him, the young man tried to find the source of the strange whispers, surely, he hadn’t gone mad, he hadn’t spent that much time underground.   
The platform seemed empty, besides from the decaying furnishings, he seemed to be the only living thing within this cave. Yet, disturbingly, the whispers didn’t falter, the stayed at the same constant rate, seemingly rushing past his ears before fading.   
‘I must be going mad’ the former prince thought to himself as he slowly turned towards the ancient wall.  
Only to stand dead still, staring.  
Upon its silver stone lay the etchings of symbols, of what the elder prince assumed was a lost language. Each rand deep within the rock, all standing out dark against the light stone. All except for one small group of carvings that is, which seemed to glow with a gentle hue of silver, even lighter than the stone. Standing frozen, staring at the dancing colours in both wonder and confusion, he was going mad. All this time he spent underground among the dead must have taken its toll.   
And yet, he walked forward, intrigued with the abnormality in the wall, his footsteps drowned out by the rushing of the wind and hushed tones of the voices. Both steadily increased as he approached, the wind seemed to shine in the light before forming into a string of light emitting form the scratches within the wall seeming to flow in a rush from the carving. The whispers became words, which turned into a chanting, the language unfamiliar to him. Its words sounding both distant and close, as if someone had thrown their voice to his ear but had only whispered their words. Despite the down right strangeness of the situation, the young boy threw caution to the wind and continued to creep forward until he stood face to face with the wall.  
His vision blurred as the light increased in intensity, until all he could see were the runes on the wall, ingrain themselves into his brain, the chanting had increased, drowning out all sound, drawing his focus to the word on the wall and only the word. His entire being seemed to burn as the light from the rune rushed into his being drowning out every though and motion that he had once possessed, replacing his entire self with one word.   
Fus.  
It rested in his mind and danced upon the tip of his tongue, but when he opened his mouth to speak it, he fell silent, the meaning of the word eluding him. The world around him felt strange to him almost too cold, what was he doing here. The thought crossed his mind as the light seemed to settle, no longer racing towards him.   
Staring at the wall for a moment longer, Gascon’s vison returned, and along with it his senses and thoughts. Shaking his head as the rushing of the waterfall and the howling of the winds filled his ears once more, the former prince tried to come to terms with what had just happened. ‘I must be going mad’ he repeated to himself, judging that the underground catacombs had taken their toll on him. Though he was given little time to ponder.  
*crack*   
*CRASH*  
The former prince sun on the spot, nearly tumbling from the sudden movement, searching for the source of the disturbance. His eyes resting in the direction of the coffin, locking with the monstrosity he saw crawling from it.   
It was a draugr, the rotten yet strangely preserved flesh clung loosely to the bones of this long dead being. Its legs swung over the side of the coffin as it raised itself from the confines of its previous resting place. Its pale eyes glowed with malice as they locked onto their target, the startled teen cornered within the hold of the ancient wall.   
Thinking fast, the teen grabbed for the nearest weapon within his belt, the sliver of darkness from his newly aired sword caught his eye as he prepared his stance, refusing to back down from this fight. He dashed forward, determined to land the first strike, not giving the beast before him a chance to catch him off guard. His feet fell at an increased pace compared to the earlier softness of his pacing, crashing upon the stone ground with a reckless thunder. His breaths coming in fast as he approached his target, his sword positioned to strike.   
With a scream of raged, he hit his mark, the rotten blood welling from the incision within the draugr, ducking fast and jumping backwards, the young prince gaged at the stench. He would have likely vomited if he hadn’t already spilled the contents of his stomach in an earlier chamber. The whistling of a sword flew over head as the former prince mentally thanked his former tutor for praising his intuition, rather than scolding him for his less than noble methods.   
He dashed forward, still low to the ground, striking out against the left leg of the walking corpse, gaging at the new bust of rotten blood. Ducking to his right, stumbling as he did so, the slicing of the air above him gave away the downward movement of his opponent’s sword, feeling an unnatural chill to the air around the blade. Narrowly missing what could have been a fatal blow, the young man straightened up, seeing an opportunity. As quick as he could manage, Gascon stuck down on his opponents’ inner elbow, the rotting flesh giving away quickly and the joint ripped away with it. The severed arm landing beside his foot coating his leather boots in a splash of rotting blood, well, they would need cleaning as soon as he left the cave.  
Ending the confrontation quickly, the enraged teen brought his sword upwards landing the tip of the blade under the chin of the draugr, pushing it upwards until he could push it no more. With a final shriek the draugr fell still, its formerly cold blue eyes dulled into darkness as it crumbled to the cold stone floor of the platform.  
Panting, Gascon focused his mind once again to his surroundings, the smell reaching him before anything else did. Reaching, the former price attempted to pull the blade of his sword from the skull of the corpse before him, but it clung to the innards of its felled victim. Deciding against retrieving the blade he had only recently required, considering the body parts that may come out with it. The former prince immediately ran to the water fall before he could keel over again, scrubbing his hands raw in the icy chill of the water before cleaning all the inflicted armour pieces.  
Satisfied with his work, Gascon returned to the platform to give one final search for the dragon stone. Again, the shelves yielded no sign of any stone matching the given description, and the chest lay bare of anything stone like. Sighing, the former prince looked in the last place he could imagine, the inside of the coffin.   
Approaching the dark stone object, stepping over the pieces of crumbled stone that made up the top cover of the resting place. Peering inside the dark container, the boy’s eyes were caught by a small bundle of objects left behind by their previous owner. A handful of small gems, each a different colour from the last, a reasonable pile of coins and the grey stone of what was unmistakably the dragon stone. Its cracked surface holding information the former prince couldn’t comprehend from the crude lines upon the ancient surface of the stone. Grabbing a wrap of linen from the shelf and wrapping it around the fragile surface of the stone before placing it and the remaining contents of the coffin within his bag.   
He set off in the opposite direction from which he came, into a winding shaft. Whatever had happened at the stone wall clinging to him in the back of his mind.


	4. The voice within

The voice within.  
The ground seemed to shake with a ferocity known only to the beast that it resonated from. Splitting the sky in a fury, the sound echoed within the core of the former prince. His hair seemed to stand on end at the far-off cry. The smoke from the smouldering rubble that was the Weston Watch Tower, obstructing his vision of the sky.  
“Here he comes! Find cover and make every arrow count” Ireleth commanded as another rage filled screech pierced the sky. Her voice stern and stable, a contrast to the quaking limbs of the young man that followed behind the guards.   
Through the smoke the sun seemed to die away before springing back to life as the shadow passed through the grey blanket towards the clear skies above the small band of soldiers. Bellowing through the clouds, the creature near blocked out the sun with the span of its wings. Its scales blended in with clouds above it, this was like no dragon Gascon had ever seen.   
He had witnessed the bright coloured dragons of Xanadu when visiting with his father, they had travelled there when Gascon was 8 to meet the great sage who resided within the city in the clouds. He had seen them zipping through the clouds while his father and the fellow great sage had tried to get the young prince to muster up a spark of magic. It had failed, and the young prince had been dragged home without a second thought. Yes, he had seen dragons but only briefly.   
But this…  
…This was like no dragon he had ever seen. Its eyes held an intelligence beyond what could be held by any species he knew of, and a fury beyond anything he had known. Its scales were nothing like those sky faring creatures that resided in the City in the sky, the greys mingled among each over in different contrasting shades, it seemed to blend in with the sky above it.  
“Talos save us! It’s a Dragon” one of the guards had cried at the sight of the beast before them.  
The beast circled overhead, before bearing down upon the group. Immediately darting to the side, he franticly withdrew his bow, and notched an arrow onto its string. Puling it back, he let it go with reckless abandon, the arrow merely scored the beasts scales as it let out a deep bellow. The sound resonated within the former prince, the deep sounds sounding almost like words as the dragon reared its head back. Before letting forth a flurry of flames towards a cluster of the guards, most luckily jumping out the way, only slightly singed.  
Yol Toor Shul.  
The words echoed in his ears as the flames grew and engulfed the earth beneath them, searing the earth to nothing but smouldering embers.   
The guards shrieked and bellowed at the beast before either running to take cover or darting to take a strike against the fearsome monster before them. A few managed to get a lucky few hits on the beast before it reared back and struck them with a singed swipe of its enormous tail. Some were sent flying back into the ground behind them before the beast had turned to face them once more.  
For the first time, Gascon got a good look at the beast, its jaws were reinforced with hardened bone and spikes that jutted from its scaled chin. Orange eyes, speckled with the red of the flames it had breathed but a moment ago. Greyish green scales that differed greatly from the vibrant rainbow colours of those dragons from Xanadu. It looked almost moulded, like it had been left to bleed out in the sun, the colour drained from its body, nothing but a greyish cast left.  
The beast snapped at some unlucky guards, catching one in its gargantuan maw, before shaking the poor man lifeless and flinging his corpse into the air, leaving him to fall in a graceless heap. Scowling at the other petty mortals before it, advancing with a vengeance for their fallen friend, the beast took off once more. Shaking himself from the trancelike state he was in, the brunet boy notched another arrow in his bow and sent it flying. It hit its mark a little better than the last, piercing the unprotected nostril of the flying reptile.  
The shriek that ripped through the air showed that it had done some damage, though not enough to fell the beast. It hadn’t mattered though, as the solders around him had also been struck by the same idea, and as they filled the air with arrows the beast fought back with a fiery breath.  
This game of cat and mouse continued, leaving scorch marks upon the ground in long lines of smoke, and bloodied arrows falling from the wound of which they made their mark. The fight for survival had dragged on, the blood that stained the tundra could no longer be identified as either man or beast, as both had met their match in the field of battle.   
With a shuddering breath, exhausted from the strain of battle, Gascon notched a last arrow and let go of the string. With a whistling trill left in its wake, the arrow darted forward finding its mark, within the flaming eye of the dragon as it flew overhead.  
The sky was pierced by and agonising shriek, followed only by the crash of earth ad the dragon fell dead onto the ground. The earth that had become disturbed from the fall, patters back upon the ground like rain. The wind whistling gently overhead and the first streams of orange from the setting sun, fell upon the land, giving it the same gentle glow of a hearths fire. It fell upon the still form of the fallen dragon, the beasts blood mingling with the colours of the setting sun giving it the appearance of the flames it had once used to terrorise the people of Whiterun hold.   
As Gascon stared at the seemingly sleeping form of the felled beast, gasping for breath as he felt the blood pounding in his veins. He faintly heard the mumbling of the surviving guards around him interrupted by a loud barking order form Ireleth.  
“Everyone get back!” she called.   
The colours of the sunset that had before given the dragon only the appearance of a gentle flame had seemingly set it alight. As the colossal creature before them became engulfed with the crackling flames that had seemingly appeared from thin air. Pieces of its scaly flesh seemed of peel from its skeleton, and float upwards while burning, as if they were ashes. As the flames grew higher several streams of colours darted from the flames towards the exhausted boy.   
Startled and unable to move his limbs, Gascon squeaked in shock and stumbled backwards off balance as the lights swirled around him and upwards, as voices chanted within his mind once more. They whispered in a foreign language that he could not understand, it felt ancient, meaningful, and yet he couldn’t identify is origin. Slowly the swirling lights and ancient words blurred and obscured his senses until they were all he knew.  
.  
.  
.  
Fus  
Force  
The world was pushing him, its strength overwhelming, yet he stood firm in its path. He would endeavour, he would not falter, he pushed back. The world parted for him.  
Force  
Fus  
.  
.  
.  
The world reawakened around him. The whispering of the wind and twittering of the birds that had before been silent in the presence of the mighty beast. The dancing flames of the sunset scattered the ground and crumbling walls of the ancient monument.   
As Gascon faded back into conscience, he noticed the guards surrounding him looking at him with expressed awe, except for Ireleth who regarded him with a look of curious caution.   
“You… you must be dragon born” one of the guards eventually stuttered breaking the silence that had since filled the air.   
“Dr-Dragonborn… what’s that” Gascon eventually murmured, shocked at the situation he had found himself in.   
“In the very oldest tales, back when there were still dragons in Skyrim, the Dragonborn would slay dragons and steel their power. That’s what you did… isn’t it? Absorb that dragons power” the guard continued, still shocked at the scene that had just befallen them.  
“I… I don’t know what happened to me” the former prince admitted, feeling rather confused.  
“There’s only one way to find out. Try to shout…” the guard continued, clearly expecting the boy before him to follow his advice.  
Before the, now very confused, former price could respond, Ireleth had had her fill of nonsense and had turned to the guard. “Dragonborn, what is this nonsense”. She spoke to the guard, questioning their statement.  
Gascon had stopped paying attention to her. He had turned to face the open moors of the hold, thoughts swirling through his head. He couldn’t be a Dragonborn, surely. Such a thing sounded like it was to include magic… which he unfortunately lacked, much to his fathers dismay.   
Although, the word he had heard earlier had resonated within him, if he could only summon them.  
Fus  
Fus   
Fus  
He repeated in his head, the word slowly travelled to his tongue and then tumbled from his mouth.  
“FUS” he pushed the world in front of him…  
…and it relented.


	5. The 7,000 steps

The 7,000 steps.  
*Crunch*  
*Crunch*  
*Crunch*

The snow creaked under his feet as he reached each step, the cold slowly seeping to his aching bones. 

It had started out easy enough, walking the first stretch of steps, the ground free from snow making the stone steps less slippery and only a light breeze to accompany Skyrim’s chill. Klimmek had requested he bring supplies to the monastery, at the top of the mountain. He had agreed, as he was heading that way anyway.

The monastery at the top of the mountain was said to be special, the summons that called out when he walked across the tundra of Whiterun has come from there after all, what was it called again… regardless the trek was far from friendly. Thankfully for him, the wolves near the start of the hike were too distracted by their most recent kill, an unlucky goat, to bother hunting him. He wouldn’t be as well off during the hike with several bite marks, he had a limited store of supplies after all.

As he had passed the pine trees that lined the slope of the mountain, the wind had begun to pick up. Not nearly enough to be a hazard, but they brought the unwelcoming chill this strange land was known for. The bitter chill had been a bother since he first washed up on the northern shores of this frozen land. He was surprised that he had survived the ship wreck, let alone the hyperthermia that should have killed him shortly after. He had shook his head in an effort to clear his head of the unpleasant memories that lead him here and treated onwards.

Emblems dotted the trail, each adding to a tale than Gascon had never been told during his childhood, he doubted anyone at home even knew this place existed, let alone its culture and history. Pilgrims journey and rest at them, Barknar, one of these pilgrims Gascon assumed, had informed him as he passed the man on increasingly snowy ground. Apparently, this trail was one often walked. With a final goodbye (and a warning to keep his eyes out for wolves) he continued his trek.

The snowfall upon the ground had also increased during his trek, while it had started out as a lighter frosting upon the cold ground, it increased rapidly as Gascon accented in altitude. And with it, it took much of the plant life, only a few trees and shrubs remained. While not a problem itself for the teen, it was a problem to the local wildlife, namely there not being much prey.

But having hungry predators looking for a meal.

Gascon rubbed his bandaged arm, the sting of the cold worsening the pain he felt from the bite wound, a pair of hungry wolves had ambushed him on the road, unlike the ones near the start of the trail, these had no prey to keep them distracted from the passing teen. Deciding to try their luck they attacked, one landing a lucky bite on his arm, before being quickly dispatched by his dagger. The boy looked down at himself, his arms were not as protected as the rest of him, only his wrists were covered by the fur gloves which provided little in the case of protection and were more for warmth. A necessity even more important in perusing, he had found out in his earlier days of traveling these icy planes and forests. Knowing this he had taken their pelts one they had been put down.

‘At least they could be sold’ he thought to himself. Huffing in frustration he looked around at the snowdrifts and rock outcropping’s, he pulled his fur cloak closer to his shoulders in an attempt to keep the cold at bay and trekked onwards along the winding path. The snow nipped at his heals, being pulled along over the rises by the wind, which had one again grown stronger. The crunching of what was left unmoved by the wind sounded with each footstep, as he approached yet another Emblem shrouded in a small grove of pine trees, which (thankfully to the young man) provided a break in the wind. 

Sitting in front of this was another pilgrim, who had little interest in exchanging names (‘just a pilgrim, I’d prefer to leave it at that’ she had said). Gascon understood, he had little interest in sharing his life story with complete strangers, who was he to judge if someone else held the same preference. He instead turned his attention to the Emblem and what was written upon it.   
Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied man  
Together they taught men to use the voice  
Then Dragon war raged, Dragon against Tongue

He had little knowledge of this country’s history, growing up in Hamelin as the son of a Great Sage, he knew of the existence of other continents, and he had questions where this ‘Skyrim’ and even ‘Tamriel’ fell on the world map, or if it even did. Surely If this dragon war occurred, then it would have affected more than just this single continent. He had heard of dragons back when he lived in Hamelin, but the people he met here had regarded dragons as mere legend and story’s. This was starting to look less and less like uncontacted territory. 

‘How far from home am I’ he pondered, the familiar feeling of loneliness beginning to griped him once again. The pull of home, something hadn’t hadn’t felt in years, began to tug at him. He felt cold, and he wasn’t too sure it was due to the cold. 

In an effort to distract himself from the emotion, he looked back at the stone structure, analysing the words written upon it. 

‘Paarthurnax?’ he noticed, the name sounding strange to him, even after he had heard many of the names in this land. He wondered who would have such a name.

After another moment of thought he continued on, biding farewell to the pilgrim who sat stationary in the same spot. Being battered by the wind once again, he made his way to the next set of stone steps, these ones looking sturdier and less worn than the last. Either these are less used, or the cold had preserved them somewhat, he snorted at the thought. The flapping of a flag, trapped within the rocks of a way stone, grew more distant as he ascended once again.

He leaned closely to the rock wall on one side of the narrow path to avoid the steep drop alongside the other side. Pulling a face of discomfort as he imagined the consequences of a single misstep or slip, he continues onwards and upwards. Breaking the top of the rise, he stopped to scout his surroundings. A passageway through two rockfaces stretched from the way stone up ahead to a cave further back. He could not see into its opening, the wind ensuring he remained slightly blind to his surroundings.

Gascon lightly rubbed the bandages on his injured arm, he would need to procced cautiously. Risking another injury was not something he could do, especially if it was more severe. Crouching in an attempt to conceal himself against the surroundings, he moved forwards, the snow still crunching beneath his feet. Reaching a fallen rock, he hid behind it. Stilling his breath for a moment, he looked over its grey surface speckled with snow, only to see a large creature sheltered beneath the rocky outcropping of the cave. 

It stood on short legs, its long torso making much it height. Haunching it’s back it dragged its knuckles across the snow-covered ground, yet it still stood a head taller than even the largest man. To think, he thought his father looked intimidating when he drew himself to his full height. The grotesque creature opened its mouth in what seemed to be a yawn, displaying rotting teeth… pointed rotten teeth… many pointed rotten teeth. There was no doubt in Gascon’s mind that this was a predator. The muscles that protruded from the sturdy bones of the monstrous being before him further proved this, and further worried the former prince, this would not be an easy fight. Especially since it difficult to see his opponent with the snow, and the white fur that covered its grotesque body. The beast sniffed at the air apparently sensing the presence of the small teen.

Ducking quickly back behind the rock, Gascon took a deep breath… several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing nerves. Thinking of his next move he began to understand the danger of the situation he was in. He couldn’t sneak past, this creature would spot him immediately, same with escaping with the way he came. Sucking in a shuddering breath he placed his hand over a leather pouch on his waist, feeling it for its contents, he darted his hand inside and pulled out his pistol, the cool of the metal of the gun cooling his shivering hands. Stilling his breath once again, he rifled around in the bag while listening for movement of the increasingly more agitated beast, griping onto two round bullets as the shambling of the monster behind him increased. Sucking from behind the cover of the rocks jagged surface, seeing his target seemingly trying to find the source of the smell. His wound, he realised too late, would likely attract its attention, with the scent of blood still clinging to the cloth that covered it. Loading his gun, he took aim, steadied his breath… and fired.

For a second that seemed to last too long, the creature stood still, then recoiled from the force of impact. Letting out an enraged howl, it turned to the source of the attack, a trail of blood falling from its shoulder, the impact site of the round projectile. Its three beady eyes scouring the blizzard for the assailant, teeth bared in a snarl. A second projectile raced forward with a faint whistling landing itself within one of the eye sockets of the beast. Screeching in rage the creature advanced towards the shaking teen, scattering vibrant blood on the bright snow beneath its feet. 

With a whimper of fear the young man backed off, it was shot directly in the skull and still hadn’t fallen, swallowing the young man felt his stomach churn. Reaching for a third bullet, he scrambled back abandoning his cover in an attempting to put distance between him and his towering opponent. It, however, advanced at a rate greater than he would have expected, and in his haste to evade the approaching animal, he tripped on the uneven ground, it didn’t help that the snow had collected into drifts. Scrambling to get up he realised one thing… he had dropped the bullet. A blinding panic took over his motor functions as the beast let out a deafening growl. It had definitely seen him now.

Desperately, he darted forward while attempting to raise from all fours. His feet scrambled and slipped on the frosted ground, spraying lose snow in all directions and he attempted to flee from this monster. The thudding of heavy of feet on the ground increased and Gascon could swear that the ground begun to shake with them. Turning around to what seemed to be almost certain death. The former prince’s eyes widened at the sight, it was much taller than previously anticipated, and rapidly approaching, growling and salivating as it did so. Its remaining two eyes trained on the shuddering teen as it approached. In a moment of free thought, Gascon reached into his pouch and retrieved another bullet. Half blind from tears, he grabbed hold of the item as if it were a sacred artefact. Fumbling to reload his gun, he heard the bellow of the creature as it was nearly upon him, raising its arm back to deliver a lethal blow. In desperation the boy rose his shaking arm and fired the pistol.

It took a moment for time to move again, the beast had stood still, its arm still raised towering over the tiny teen. Then it slowly leaned back, before falling with a thud. Gascon remained where he was, the snow clinging to his coat as he shivered on the spot, tears sliding down the sides of his face, stinging his cheeks as they travelled down. Heart hammering in his chest, Gascon took several shaking breaths, each producing a white puff as they left his body, each resembling a sob as he processed what had just happened. He stayed like that for a moment longer, before slowly moving to stand, testing each limb before putting pressure on it, ensuring it would work. Once he was securely standing, leaning against the rock wall he had unknowingly backed into during the fight, he looked towards the body of the fallen beast. Its snowy fur becoming a sickening crimson, along with the snow beneath it. Looking away while trying not to gag, he noticed a trail of red, leading from the cave… to the body. 

Shaking his head and hobbling towards the disturbed mound of snow, he reached down to where he assumed the metal object was hidden, delving his hand into the icy covering on the ground. He retracted his hand, holding the round object between is index finger and his thumb. Heaving a sigh of relief for retrieving the precious object, he rolled it into the palm of his hand. Staring at its smooth surface he pondered its purpose, it was hardly an object that benefitted anyone other than its wielder, no it caused pain and damage to others not in possession of it. 

Staring at its smooth surface, the cold began to make its presence known again, and it only got colder as the guilt settled in. he had caused harm to a creature that posed no definite threat to him, simply because he had recognised it a potential threat. Gascon began to feel sick once again, looking back once again at the fallen body, made the guilt only worse. The wolves had attacked first, they had already been a threat when he had killed them, but this creature. In his attempt to avoid another wound, he had killed this beast before it had even shown itself as a threat.

‘What… What if it wouldn’t have harmed me, an-and I-I just… shot it dead’ he realised in dread, shame beginning to take affect alongside the guilt. People here would kill creatures simply for hunting and for being a threat, that was part of life in Skyrim, you either killed or you were killed. But this was beyond that, he didn’t even know is the creature posed a threat, what if it were likely Ulk, not violent by nature but large and intimidating all the same. He turned away from the blood-soaked corpse in shame.

The wind whipped at his cheeks and the cold stung his face, despite the guilt that had taken a hold of him from his previous actions, he thought it would be better to get under shelter. Despite not deserving comfort after his previous actions he still moved on. The outcropping of rock that sheltered the fallen creature provided a gloomy, unwelcoming atmosphere, as if the very rock itself refused the teen comfort or hospitality. Stepping inside Gascon released the tears he had held back, but no one would be there to comfort him. His family, miles away, possibly even further, not even knowing if he was alive would not provide him comfort. While he never sought comfort from his father past the age of five, he still drew the warm feeling from his presence in his younger years. And he never cried in front of his brother, he had to act strong for him, he still felt better in his presence. 

But now they were gone… no… he was gone, not them. He had left them behind, the same longing that dragged him from them was now trying to pull him back. But it was too late, he couldn’t go back home, he was lost.

He couldn’t take back leaving, he had already left.  
And he couldn’t take back firing that first bullet, the creature was already dead.  
He couldn’t take back the pain he had caused, it was too late.

Feeling the burning shame well up inside him once more, he turned his head to the side, in an effort to avoid the glaring red that stained the snow on the cave floor. Only to freeze in place, he stared, tears slowly falling and drying, not being replaced by others. Dark sockets stared back, unmoving, lifeless. The cold of the snow feeling like a blazing fire in comparison to the chill of what he felt inside. The blazing shame that engulfed him only moments ago lay dead and, in its place, was the cold sharpness of shock. 

Staring back at him was a skull… a human skull, several in fact. Their bones scattered behind a dried thicket. The empty shapes within the greying bone bore holes through the former princes own. He turned his head slowly to the blood splattered on the floor of the cave. Its vibrant red seemed to shine more brightly than he last saw it. Gascon slowly felt his guilt be replaced by relief and pride, only a slither of the latter but it was still there. The bones of the fallen were scattered hap-hazardly around the cave, his would have likely joined them had he not acted. The culprit slowly becoming more and more obvious. Gascon looked beyond the mouth of the cave, through the snowfall that seem to be falling even more strongly through the pathway, at the bloodied corpse of the beast. Staring at it, the cave seemed to feel warmer, as if the remains thanked the young man for avenging them against the beast.

Drying his eyes on the back of his sleeves, Gascon pulled his fur cloak around him once more and set off along the frosted trail, battling the cold as he did.

Perhaps he would trust his instincts more often.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the characters or their respective games, the rights go to the respective creators.


End file.
